As the Wicked Watch(81)

“The stepfather let them in, and that’s when things got worse,” she said. “Their questions started to sound more like accusations when the detective asked the boy if he still had the knife he took to school.

“The stepfather had had ‘the talk’ with his son about how to deal with the police. But the boy is terrified of them. For whatever reason, that night he tried to run to his room, but one of the officers grabbed him. The stepfather intervened and things escalated. There was a tussle and the stepdad, Bernard, was tased in front of his wife and his kids in his own living room.”

“Oh my God, that’s horrible,” I interjected. “What evidence do they say they have? Did they search the home?”

“They did.”

“And did they find anything?”

Constanzo clasped her hand together under her chin in a prayer posture. “Police checked the boys’ room and found a sharp kitchen knife under the oldest’s bed. They confiscated the knife, shoes, jackets, backpacks, and other articles of clothing from both houses, and the crime lab matched DNA from the crime scene.”

My poker face was becoming harder to maintain by the minute.

“First, let’s look at the situation, the timing of their visit. The stepdad complained to the brass. Next thing he knows, police are at his house. As I see it, they were there to intimidate them,” Constanzo said. “They didn’t have a warrant and no probable cause to go after these kids other than they are Black.”

“Wasn’t the neighbor who reported them to police also Black?” I asked.

“Your point?” she asked.

I was just thinking out loud. I didn’t feel like explaining. “Are you saying they illegally searched the house?”

“I’m saying it was a trap,” she said. “They took advantage of the situation, arresting the father and the older boy as a way to get around the fact they didn’t have a warrant. They found a kitchen knife under the boy’s bed, took it and ran with it.”

“Why did he keep a knife under the bed?”

“Weren’t you ever afraid of the dark as a kid? Or slept with a butcher knife next to your bed as a single woman? I sure have,” Constanzo said. “It’s little consolation, but when you’re frightened, it can help you sleep at night.”

The next day police questioned the eleven-year-old at home and got him to admit that they had come across the remains one day while taking a shortcut through the park.

“Again, he thought if he told the truth, he’d be okay. They instantly treated the boys like murder suspects,” Constanzo said. “They didn’t get the benefit of the doubt. That happens a lot in families where somebody is already behind bars and the adults don’t know who to call if they feel their rights are being violated.”

“Why didn’t they tell anybody about the body?” I asked.

“I can’t explain why these kids discovered a body, didn’t report it, then went back to the scene more than once. But that is precisely what happened.”

My eyes grew wide. Being placed near the scene was one thing, but discovering the body and going back for another look was creepy.

“You’ll connect the dots of what I’m telling you when you read the petitions and the indictment against the older boy. Their ages should be a factor, but not to investigators or the state’s attorney. I admit the circumstances are strange, but you can’t charge kids with murder for behaving strangely.”

“Do police think the boys knew Masey?” I asked.

“I don’t know what police think, but I can tell you unequivocally no, they didn’t know her. They’re kids; they didn’t even know a girl was missing.”

I put two and two together. The person who turned the boys in must have been at the vigil, and someone overheard her talking about police focusing on the kids.

“Have police made a link between the kitchen knife and Masey’s murder?”

“Again, the kitchen knife incident happened almost a year ago. This is a kid who was afraid of a bully,” she said.

And now one bad decision could become the sum of his life, assigning him a label that allowed the police officers who came to his home to judge him and his stepfather, a journeyman carpenter and a deacon at his church.

“Anything else you’d like to share?” I asked.

Constanzo shook her head. Scott turned off the camera and began to pack up.

“Thank you, Adele. Can I call you that?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Just curious. Who was the detective who went to the family’s house?”

“I’m sure you know him. His name is Fawcett.”

“Mitch Fawcett,” I confirmed. “Yes, I know him.”

“He’s a real asshole,” Constanzo said. “That’s off the record.”

“I still don’t get it. What evidence are they saying connects these boys to the crime?”

I understood her perhaps not wanting to divulge that on the air, but I needed details, because nothing she’d told me thus far had changed my mind about what or who the police should be focused on.

Adele Constanzo stood up and made her way to the front edge of her desk, both hands at her sides to prop herself up in a power pose I am certain she has used in court many times, adding a level of seriousness to what she was about to say.